Ladies Lazarus
by MorganLeFay33
Summary: "Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air." - Sylvia Plath


_I found this old fic I started writing ages ago, so I thought I'd publish it. Other than my Corah Christmas exchange fic (soon to come, I hope!), this is my last hurrah for a while._

_xoxo,_

_Morgana_

* * *

**Ladies Lazarus**

_"Out of the ash_

_I rise with my red hair_

_And I eat men like air."_

Normally, Sarah would have vehemently protested being asked to do extra work. Normally, the only interest she had in doing extra work was the delicious possibility of scandalous intrigue at someone else's expense. This time, she neither protested nor looked forward to it.

She'd heard the servants discussing Lillian Nelson all day and knew far more about the Canadian woman than anyone should, thanks to her overly divulgent lady's maid. It had served the vapid twit right to fall ill with stomach sickness, Sarah thought – a punishment fitting of the crime.

Her Ladyship had invited Mrs. Nelson to stay at Downton for however long it would take her to recover. Because it was her lady's friend and her lady's extension of hospitality, Sarah vowed to take utmost care of Mrs. Nelson. It didn't matter who it was - if the countess had made the same fuss about Jack the Ripper, Sarah would have shown him equal attention.

But there was something else as well, something that made Sarah angry when the younger servants gossiped and mocked the poor woman. It was just a shame, the way people claimed expertise on matters they knew nothing about.

"Good evening, O'Brien." Her frail voice drifted quietly across the room. She hadn't bothered to stand, and barely turned her body toward Sarah.

"Good evening, Mrs. Nelson."

"I apologize for troubling you."

"I don't mind. We're all very sorry to see your lady's maid in such a state," she lied.

Sarah worked quickly, undressing her with gentle hands and trying not to touch her. Sarah had grown so used to her lady that to see and feel the nude form of an unfamiliar woman made her nervous, and she hated the small bit of excitement that stirred within her at a time like this.

In the flickering lamplight, Mrs. Nelson reminded Sarah of a dripping candle, her pale limbs strewn across the chair like drooping wax and her large blue eyes practically melting into the lines below them.

Sarah lowered her eyes as she ran the brush through Mrs. Nelson's waist-length red hair, marveling at its fiery hue. It seemed so strange that such a brilliant flame could engulf the washed out person beneath it.

Mrs. Nelson suddenly broke the silence. "You know, don't you?" Her voice was barely a whisper and she hung her head.

Sarah paused for a moment, unsure of how to respond.

"I'm not surprised. I'm sure you must all know by now," the redhead said with a deep sigh. "Everyone up here knows, so why shouldn't the staff know as well?"

Sarah gently resumed her brushing, wordlessly resisting the urge to meet her eye. Sarah's insides clenched at the silvery smoothness of the other woman's voice. Every word sounded like a melancholy song, like a ghostly renunciation of herself.

"What do I care, really? I suppose I might as well confess and live up to my reputation. Lillian Nelson – insane, volatile, crazy, _suicidal _woman, haunting the halls of Downton like Goddamn Bertha Mason herself."

Sarah began to plait her hair, still trying not to engage in conversation.

"They've boarded up my one window, you know." She gestured weakly toward the wall and continued with a hollow laugh. "As if that would stop me."

Sarah tied the end of her plait with a black ribbon and looked into the mirror, mustering her steadiest voice. "Will that be all, Mrs. Nelson?"

"Will that be all Mrs. Nelson," she murmured in a sourly mocking voice, staring at Sarah with menacing contempt. "_You _wouldn't understand, would you. No one understands."

Sarah was immediately incensed by the woman's cavalier assumption, and her sympathy vanished into the thick air around them. Within seconds, Sarah's mind was flooded with memories - the biting Irish accent, the piercing gray eyes, the tumble of ebony hair, that raspy cackle, that godforsaken letter, the salty taste of her own tears drifting from her cheeks onto her pillow. Then, even older memories - the smell of wet dirt in the storm, water pelting her back, the streaming leaves of the willow practically asphyxiating her, her pale hand shaking as she held the little bottle, the bitter taste of it on her lips, the shards of glass at her feet, the beads of sweat falling from her brow, and that horrible retching sickness.

"You're nothing special," she snapped before she could stop herself. "You're not the only one who's had a go at it, you know."

Now it was Lillian's turn to be silent. She sat straight up and her face twitched in uncomfortable surprise.

Sarah continued boldly. "Some people are more successful than you were, and it's for them that I'll be saving _my _prayers, thank you."

"Miss, O'Brien!" she exclaimed, her expression ablaze with rage. "I'm appalled! How…"

Sarah interrupted her. "Not every woman is fortunate enough to have her two wealthy sons find her before she can fling herself off the roof, and you would do well to remember what a privilege it is to be so kindly taken in by her Ladyship after doing something so selfish. All some of us get is a bloody farmhand and his mardy old trout of a wife. Try not to throw yourself off any balconies tonight. They've just planted a new rose garden, and it'd be so very inconvenient for me to spend my morning cleaning bits of you out of it."

With that, she turned and exited the room. Sarah knew she would be returning later that evening to make her apologies and hopefully to receive one as well, but in this moment, she had to get away lest she lose her temper to an even more dangerous degree. From her last glance at Lillian's expression, Sarah knew all to well that not a word of their conversation would reach Cora Crawley, and for that alone she was thankful.


End file.
